


waving, drowning

by 0plus2equals1



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Intercrural Sex, Other, Rough Sex, brief mentions of the other dlc npcs, gender neutral chosen undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24840574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0plus2equals1/pseuds/0plus2equals1
Summary: The Abyss hasn't left much of Artorias behind, but the Chosen Undead helps him find what remains.
Relationships: Artorias the Abysswalker/Chosen Undead
Comments: 13
Kudos: 60





	waving, drowning

_The will feels envy, or perhaps love, and despite the inevitably trite and tragic ending, the will sees no alternative, and is driven madly toward its target._

* * *

The sky was seared orange. The sun was just barely crested over the horizon, halted from its descent. A slight breeze— warm, pleasant— drifted over tall grass and sent it wavering.

But with the breeze came a smell: a hint of soft rot, sweet and sulfurous. It made their nose itch. The Chosen Undead held a clump of blossom-spotted moss to their face and inhaled that astringent scent instead. They strode through a smattering of flame-orange flowers until their boots splashed against deep azure sludge. The Abyss was welling up here like oversaturated groundwater.

 _An abyss was begat of the ancient beast,_ that mushroom-woman had said, _and threatens to swallow the whole of Oolacile. Knight Artorias came to stop this, but such a hero has nary a murmur of Dark._

The brighter the flame the more spectacular the shadow, the Chosen Undead figured. Artorias, a renowned knight of the Lords, his soul set firmly in the realm of Light— did sending such a warrior to the fight the Abyss merely put the Dark in starker relief? And what fine distinctions were lost in that overwhelming contrast?

There was that princess-sorceress they had met, as well, adrift in time and seeking truth more than safety. _I still think on that creature from the Abyss that preyed upon me. My faculties were far from lucid, but I quite clearly sensed certain emotions,_ she had confessed to them. _A wrenching nostalgia, a lost joy, an object of obsession, and a sincere hope to reclaim it…Could these thoughts belong to the beast from the Abyss?_

_But if that were true, then perhaps it is no beast after all?_

The Dark wanted and the Light denied. Denied, perhaps, out of a protective, paternal sense of doing-this-for-your-own-good. Our-own-good. My-own-good. But pursuing that line of thought only brought the Chosen Undead a sourness at the back of their throat, a bitterness deep in their blood, and so they pushed it away. 

They entered the elevator, nudged at the enchanted mechanism with one foot, and the air whooshed past them as they descended. After drifting to a halt, they strode out onto the grassy cliffside and raised their gaze to the crumbling coliseum.

“What attempt is this, then?”

The Chosen Undead paused and shot a glance at the man with the ostentatious outfit and a smiling mask that they couldn’t help but feel was hiding yet another vicious grin.

Chester rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Can’t remember? I can keep track for you, if you’d like.”

They cleared their throat and mirrored the shrug. In truth, it was their fourth attempt. The previous three had seen them meeting their end quickly, crushed between sword and ground before being cleaved in two.

“If at first you don’t succeed,” Chester said as he waved a languid hand and laughed to himself, “Try, try, try, try—” and here, he took a dramatic pause for breath, “try, and try again.”

The Chosen Undead kept walking.

* * *

The Chosen Undead rolled to the side of an arcing overhead swing and sharp rubble pelted their helm after the impact of the blade against the ground. They clutched at the pommel of their own sword as it threatened to slip from their grasp. As they recovered they heard the echoing clank of layered armor approaching— they dodged just a second before the greatsword slashed through the air.

They backed away and maintained a wary distance as Artorias pulled the sword up, his movements pained yet tireless, like the gears of a machine grinding itself down into dust. His left arm crashed against his torso and hung limply. The right arm flexed as he hauled the sword in a wide arc.

A shadowy tinge grew from the ground beneath his feet and coalesced upwards, swirling as it went. A groan escaped from the back of his throat, ragged and desperate-sounding. His stance lowered as if the wispy darkness was weighing him down more than the sword sliding heavily against his shoulder.

 _Damned_ , the Chosen Undead thought as they pressed forward, and the rising shadow flowed around them. _Duty-bound_. They made a slash into the gut of him, blade slipping first against plated metal before piercing through a gap and hitting what remained of his flesh. _They chose to feed you to the Dark and you went. I’m chosen to be fed to the Light and I may yet go._ A sympathetic pang passed through them, though the Chosen Undead felt ashamed at the absurdity of it— here they were, with a head full of pity _and_ self-pity, tearing at the bowels of a husk that, if he felt anything, surely hated them. They may not be a chittering Abyss-melded monstrosity but they did have that brand etched deeply into their chest, after all, to ward back the Dark that resided within them.

And here Artorias was, warding back the Dark, even as it seeped from his own armor and splashed onto the floor. The shadows dispersed and his whole body tensed.

He lunged.

The Chosen Undead was knocked to the ground. Their helmet clattered against stone and fell from their head and their face was exposed to the air. No matter how familiar pain became their body still reacted instinctively, and their mouth twisted as they cried out. Their sword slipped from the gap in his armor and tumbled away.

Artorias fell upon them. The body of the knight was a crushing cage. An armored knee cut against their shin. The greatsword drove into the ground aside their head. They stared up into his helm— another little abyss, shadowed, revealing nothing— and they prepared for a killing blow.

None came. Their chest heaved as they caught their breath and they shifted their shoulders against stone. The pressure on their legs had passed beyond pain and into numbness. Artorias was breathing—low, hoarse sounds, deep in the back of his helm—but he wasn’t attacking further. They noticed that his broken arm, though it hung down and scraped his gauntlet against the ground, was twitching slightly. That wretched dark sludge welled up around them and the Chosen Undead felt the sting of it sink into their back. 

They stared up at him and their mind raced. There had to be more to this than putting down a man made sickened beyond sense by the Abyss. Something of him must be left, for him to cling to his duty, to fight on as he did. Something that the Abyss clutched at avariciously instead of snuffing out. It was corrupted and perhaps made mindless with time, but some core part of his soul, some driving thing—surely it must be in there, still.

And the Chosen Undead wondered selfishly, indulgently, if he was staring at them now, too. If this pause was him peering at the burning curse upon their ribs and seeing not a hollow, not a carrier of the fearsome dark, but as someone who had lived in the world he had tried so hard to keep safe. Was still trying to keep safe.

The interlocked plates of his armor clattered as a shudder passed through him, traveling from heel to head in a nauseous retch. Artorias gasped in a deep breath and his fingers shifted around the handle of the greatsword. The metal shrieked against stone. But after one heaving pull at the hilt, he—

He shook his head. The Chosen Undead was awash in cautiously hopeful disbelief. Surely that was a mere twitch of long-suffering muscles, an instinctive look from side to side to catch a glimpse of any incoming threats. The Abyss seemed to leave those things behind—the inscribed motions of the hindbrain, the most basic wants. 

But he repeated the action and they felt a strange, soaring elation. A shake of the head. A no. The simplest possible form of conscious communication. Though if it were directed at them or at himself, they did not know.

They watched him, wide-eyed. What was it? Had exhaustion finally broken through his seemingly tireless pursuit? The Chosen Undead, after all, could return refreshed from the bonfire while Artorias suffered through the breaking of his own body without respite. _No more_ , he was perhaps asking, _no more for now_ —hence the crouched pause above them.

One knee slid forward and Artorias collapsed a bit further. The dulled blue tassel streaming from the back of his helm tumbled over his neck. His hand dropped from the hilt of the sword and grasped tightly at the Chosen Undead’s shoulder. His palm was big enough to engulf their pauldron but as they watched him move it struck them how thin, almost lanky he was. He was much larger than them, of course, but with his proportions he gave an impression of steel-backed, sinewy litheness. Much like a wolf, they realized. 

The hand upon their shoulder squeezed harshly, relented, and squeezed again. Their armor creaked.

Artorias shook his head once more but then his helm drifted slowly to the side, his neck stretched out, and he let out a low sigh, followed by a sharp inhale. His other knee shifted against the ground. The Chosen Undead grunted as his weight left their legs and then grunted again, louder, more surprised, when his hips crashed into them. Armor clattered against armor. Artorias paused again in a shivering stillness, and then he lifted back up ever so slightly. He had essentially straddled them, and his top half still loomed close, his right hand holding himself up by pressing against their shoulder while the left dragged against the ground.

The Chosen Undead’s thighs were caught between his. As he sank back down against them their legs slid up past metal plating, past the torn edges of chainmail haubergeon, past soft blue inner fabric, and up against something unmistakable.

He bucked against their thigh and then froze again. His hand gripped at their pauldron so hard they were sure it would dent. Again, he made that shake of the head, and the blue tassel was sent fluttering. He pulled his knee forward and tried to lift himself once more but with a pained, guttural gasp he slid back down.

 _Well._ The Chosen Undead swallowed dryly. Perhaps the corruptive influence of the Abyss magnified desire, whether it be noble or base. And there were few instincts more ancient or pervasive than the one pressed thuddingly hot and insistent against them, evident through both his layers of cloth and their own.

And the shaking of the head—what worries did he still hold? He was a knight beholden to a code, albeit a code remaining only as an echoing memory at this point. That code likely prohibited untoward advances on the battlefield. Or, more specifically, overpowering a human easily half his size and rutting up against them. Perhaps these instinctive, nearly bestial actions shamed what was left of him.

But the Chosen Undead held no disgust or anger towards him for it. They had seen Hollows following dozens of thoughtless, residual patterns of their prior sane lives, some more debased than others. The thought had struck the Chosen Undead more than once that they could become one of them, given a bad enough day.

The Chosen Undead watched as his head twitched to the side again. Artorias was resisting the insistence of his body as best he could. There was honor in him yet.

The Abyss had already taken nearly everything from him. This need not be another humiliation.

The Chosen Undead peered into his helm, nodded, and then raised a cautious hand and traced a circle on their breastplate, over their heart. They nodded once more.

_If you truly do not want to do this, I can let the Darksign pull me back to the flame and I will leave you. But if you want this last comfort, I will not deny you. I will give willingly._

His helm lowered as his spine curled up and his legs tensed and flexed. He let out a sound like a sob. The Chosen Undead let their hand fall back to their side and they kept very still.

He lowered himself a bit further and bent his elbow to brace it against the floor. His gauntlet drifted up from their shoulder, dragged along their neck, and then crept behind their head as if to cradle them— a deliberate, careful action, even though his fingers twitched idly and scraped against their scalp.

The grime-spattered silver helm ducked down and then swung back up. A nod.

The Chosen Undead lowered their hands to their hips and pawed at their armor, pushing at latches and straps, barely having room to maneuver with the much larger knight still above them. As they shoved cloth and leather down to their knees they thrashed their legs and tried to kick it off but once it was at their ankles his hips rolled down again, made greedy by the sight of bare flesh. Hardness pressed into their thighs and heat lapped at their core as they realized the size of him. Actually taking him in would be difficult. They knocked a knee against his side, a quick insistence that he relent for just a moment, as they tried to kick off what remained of the bottom half of their gear.

He let out a soft groan but drew back, giving them some room to move. Their gear went to the floor in a heap. Artorias was using his unbroken arm to brace himself so he had no way of pulling himself free. The Chosen Undead reached out in an awkward stretch. The hanging chainmail gathered and bunched atop their wrist and their fingers slid up the blue linen chausses covering his inner thighs. They fumbled with some knotted cord gathered at the top of his braies and their breath hitched in their throat when he pushed needily into their hand, his length straining against the cloth and warm against their palm. 

The cord came apart and they tugged at the hem of the braies. When their fingertips made contact with skin Artorias shuddered and the hand cradling their head gripped at them harshly. Their scalp stung and their mouth fell open. But his cock slid up against their hand, already slicked at the tip, and heat jolted in their gut at the weight of it. They swept their curled fingers along it in a few tentative strokes. The grip on their hair relented and Artorias let out a low growl.

With an abrupt, stuttering movement, he lowered his hips, and his cock dragged across the give of their belly. His knees ground against stone as he shifted back, and his length pushed against the inner curve of where hip met thigh. The head of his cock left spots of wet on the skin it pressed against. Armor clanked as he shuddered. He was pistoning against them, not even into them, and the hand at the back of their head flexed as if uncertain.

Perhaps it wasn’t enough sensation. The Chosen Undead gave a gentle tug to his wrist, hoping he would disentangle from their hair as they rolled over. They pulled their knees under, propped themselves up on their hands, and kept their thighs tightly together. No need to mince the meaning— they hooked an arm around one leg and pantomimed a quick back and forth up through their thighs with their hand.

Either he got the gist or he was so desperate for contact that he thrust up against them anyway. He arched over the Chosen Undead and drove his cock between their thighs. A whine escaped them at the sensation of his length pressing up against their groin and dragging against them, insistent and hot. Their reaction only spurred him on. Armor slammed against the back of their thighs hard enough to bruise.

There was some pain, yes, but nothing too concerning. And given his state, the Chosen Undead figured that Artorias would be better off hearing vocal enthusiasm rather than silence or unnecessary complaint. They made appreciative little hums and choked gasps when arousal bolted through them, such as when the head of his cock pressed up against their entrance before slipping along past. The brief pressure and push teased them but they were aware that he was quite possibly too big for them to take.

But it seemed like he wanted that—they sensed a frustration, a further shuddering in his movements, the impacts growing almost vicious as he chased after sensation. The fingers on his right hand flexed and dug against the ground. He was fucking up into them, not through their thighs as before, his cock driving against them but unable to go in mostly because he wasn’t slowing his pace.

Perhaps, if he would listen, they could direct him to lie back. Gravity would help them take him in, and perhaps the position would give them more control over the pace. And there would be pain, but they still had estus.

They lifted a hand and tugged insistently at his wrist. To their relief, he stuttered to a stop, but he let out a low noise that signified he may not be able stay stopped for long.

The Chosen Undead crawled out from beneath him and gently pushed at his shoulder, then waved their hand in a semicircle. _Roll over_. Armor clanked against stone and Artorias was on his back, waiting expectantly, hungrily. The Chosen Undead took a deep breath and then, as they always did, they threw themselves at the challenge.

A taut pinch, a burning sting, _pain_ — they threw back their head and estus dribbled down their neck as they gulped it down. They were sure they were a ridiculous sight— bare bottom struggling to sink down upon his cock, top half still mostly armored, and a flask pressed to their lips. But Artorias lifted his right hand to cup their hip, gently at first, and then in a tightening clutch as they lowered themselves. He gripped at them like a drowning man would grip a lifeline.

They flexed their legs, lifted marginally, and then dropped back down. He thrust up into them, the hand on their hip pulling them down deeper, and they let out a strangled cry. The force of it had them bouncing. There was a burning at their core, agony and arousal alike. There was also something in the set of Artorias’s shoulders, in the single-minded focus he found seeking release through them, in the steadying grip upon their hip— the tireless knight and accursed undead had both found a sense of relief.

The Abyss was still swelling around them, pervasive and dense, and the Chosen Undead knew what duty would lie ahead of them. But for the moment, that could wait. An electric jolt thudded in their gut with each thrust, the tension of it so taut that it could break at any second.

It seemed Artorias was fast approaching the end, as well—his helm was canted back, his gauntleted fingers grasped at them so tightly he drew blood, and his already erratic rhythm was unraveling further. A low sound built at the back of his throat, he choked out a ragged exhale, and a wet heat spurted up into them. His hips still lurched upwards repeatedly and his helm scraped against stone as his neck arched back. In watching him the Chosen Undead felt themself come undone. When they came it felt like something snapping from strain. They cried out and lifted themselves up and off of him before collapsing forward and slumping against his abdomen. His hips twitched upwards a few more times, smearing his cock between their thighs, up against their ass, and they felt the last few weaker surges of his cum against their skin.

The Chosen Undead caught their breath. Beneath them, they could feel the faint swell and fall of Artorias breathing, as well. For now, things were blessedly silent. The Chosen Undead kept still and let peace settle for as long as it could.

**Author's Note:**

> does post-nut clarity fix the abyss? we just dont know  
> there's already some intense Abyss-corrupted Artorias wrecking Chosen Undead stuff out there so i decided to go... Soft........-er-ish.  
> big shoutout to brim for the prompt!  
> title very gently stolen from 'not waving, but drowning' by stevie smith. uh yeah i'll grab titles from well-renowned poetry for my dumb souls porn why not  
> opening line from the 'pursuers' item description  
> as always, thanks for reading and i hope you enjoyed!  
> hmu on twitter @wouldwebealive


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